


Begin at the Beginning

by Helen8462, Klugtiger



Series: Friendship One AU [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Epistolary, F/M, Friendship One AU, Prologue to a Large Series, Someone had to die, exchange fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 06:49:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16928499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helen8462/pseuds/Helen8462, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klugtiger/pseuds/Klugtiger
Summary: At the end of his father's long and full life, one son is being given a very special gift.





	Begin at the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This work is the prologue to an extensive AU series, one that spans roughly 70 years of stories. What you see here represents nearly two straight months of headcanon and dialogue sessions, hundreds of pages of chat and scribbled ficlets, virtually living this AU with my good buddy, my partner-in-crime, the devil on my shoulder, the B'Elanna to my Joe, [Klugtiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klugtiger/). This has been so damn much fun and we are very excited to share it with everyone. We're sure you're gonna hate it.
> 
> Very big thank you to MiaCooper who has been so patiently waiting for me to write anything at all, then beta'd it for me at the deadline. Also Klugtiger for her beta and double check, cause my memory is shit.  
> 

* * *

_“Begin at the beginning," the King said, very gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”  
-Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_

* * *

 

Dad isn’t going to be with us much longer.

Doc says probably six months. Eight, if he’s lucky. The prognosis came in weeks ago, but I’m just now finding the time to write about it.

No, that’s a lie. And I promised Kam I wouldn’t lie about this, dammit. The truth is, I’ve had plenty of time. I’m only just now feeling up to writing again.

Unlike the rest of us, Dad’s spirits are high; he feels pretty good most days. As good as one feels at eighty-six, I suppose. It’s a blessing, Kam says. He’s been praying to the prophets on my father’s behalf. A gesture I don’t specifically believe in, though I appreciate none-the-less.

The important thing is that Dad’s making the most of the time he has left: travelling with B’Elanna, spending time with their daughters, my brothers and me, and all of our families. He’s embracing every opportunity to bounce the little ones on his knee: the grandchild that L’Naan has recently given him, as well as the baby girl who promises to be the first of many great-grandchildren, my Nora.

That just leaves the rest of us to process a life spent with and without our father.

My fearless older brother, the commander, is desperately trying to make it back to the alpha quadrant before it’s too late. Starfleet has granted him the rare privilege of extended family leave, no doubt after he dropped a few names. Only the universe knows if he’ll manage or not. Hopping starships and freighters like some kind of intergalactic hitchhiker can’t be the most pleasant way to travel, but I give him credit for trying. And I do hope he makes it.

My younger brother, Joey, has taken to seclusion in his wood shop, coming out only for varnish and sandpaper unless Dad’s around. I can’t fathom how he’s able to exist in there. Every single thing in that room, every well-worn tool, every drop of paint on the floor, must remind him of Dad. It’s where our father bonded with Joey more thoroughly than he was ever able to with Brad or I, where Dad no doubt told Joey countless stories from his time on _Voyager_. And I admit, I’m a bit jealous of that. Though I won’t have cause to be for much longer. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Then there’s Mom. Mom isn’t handling this well at all. Who can blame her, really? When you’ve known someone your whole life it shouldn’t be easy to say goodbye. They were just fifteen when they met, can you imagine? Married at twenty-two. Ripped apart at thirty-three. Reunited in a way I can only describe as complex at nearly fifty. They may not share a bed anymore, but they do share nearly seventy years of history, not to mention three sons, five grandchildren, and my little Nora. That’s quite a connection if you ask me. I’m worried for Mom when he’s gone.

And, of course, I’m worried for B’Elanna.

B’Elanna is finally, legally, my step-mother. When she and my father announced their plans to marry two weeks ago, I know more than a few of us were shocked. We’d collectively figured they’d given up on that goal decades ago. So, I asked Dad, “What does it matter? You’ve gone this long without it being official.” He simply said, “I’m not sure. We just think it does.” And then he smiled, took the ring that she’d already been wearing for forty years and slipped it on her finger as if this were something completely brand-new.

Most women would balk at the idea of marrying another man just to lose him, but not B’Elanna. _Kahless_ , that woman is stronger than any person I’ve ever met. Though, now that I think about it, without my father I’m not sure how B’Elanna would have dealt with all of the shit that life threw at her. I wonder how she’ll manage now. It’s not as if she’ll be alone, though. Not really. She’s done so much for each of us I can’t imagine she’ll be alone even a minute, unless she wants to be.

This brings me to my little sisters, Miral and L’Naan. That tough Klingon exterior can be damned hard to read sometimes. They may not share the same bloodline – something I’ve learned is very important in their culture – but regardless, Miri’s about to lose the only father she’s ever known. And Nani? She’s the only one of us lucky enough to have had Dad present through her entire life. Has jealousy come up yet in this journal entry? I should be writing with green ink.

And how am I handling news of my father’s imminent demise? About as well as any writer might: I’m inspired and more than just a little excited. No, not that he’s dying, I may be hardened but I’m not heartless. When Dad’s gone, I’m going to miss him like hell. But just last week he promised to divulge his life’s secrets. “Nothing is off-limits,” he told me. “B’Elanna and the rest of the family agrees, you do with this what you will.”

His time and memories are his final gift to me, to all of us kids and grandkids and so on. And it will be my greatest honor to compile his recollections, to preserve them as stories that can be passed down.

My father has led an exceptionally full life, both personally and professionally. I know this despite the fact that he’s been close-lipped about most of it – namely the transition between his first love and his second. That’s what his story is, really. I’m not nearly as interested in the gel-packs and Borg shielding, the battles and foes of the intrepid starship _Voyager_ – those things have been written about to death.

I want to expose the heartaches, the sacrifices, the triumphs. I want to write about a love that flourished in the space between stars. Prophets, that sounds sappy.

I know my father to be a humble man, he won’t like to take credit for much, so I’m sure I’ll have to supplement his interviews with additional ones from B’Elanna, Miral, Doc, my mother, maybe even some of the Paris clan in order to get the full picture. But eventually, the stories will come together in one form or another, and when they do, they’ll be remarkable. I’m sure of that.

Dad will be by in an hour for our first session. I have so many questions it’s hard to know where to start. Maybe I’ll take a page from Lewis Carroll. _“Begin at the beginning," the King said._ Which many might presume was the time she broke his nose.

But I know better.

Their real beginning was the day he didn’t die.

* * *

 

_Bottled Up  
By: Nick Carey_

He slides the elongated tweezers out of the bottle, turns the wooden stand ninety-degrees and examines his handiwork. The quick-drying adhesive sets in a matter of seconds and he lets go of a long-held breath.

The final piece, the port nacelle, is in place.

“Wow,” he sighs, spinning the base slower this time, making one full revolution. _Voyager,_ in all her glory, held within a one-liter glass bottle. He stops the motion, stoops low until he’s peering through the opening, and stares down the model’s grey bow.

“Computer,” he asks. “Search my personal logs. When did I start building my ship in a bottle? How long ago?”

_~Record identified. Log entry dated Stardate 51230.3. Three years, six months, seventeen days.~_

“Right,” he recalls, remembering all too vividly that he started his tedious little endeavor that time when aliens were experimenting on the crew. So doped up on synthetic endorphins he couldn’t sleep, he’d taken on a new project only to find his hands trembling with such ferocity he couldn’t even get the slender base through the neck of the bottle.

Since then, whenever he’d found himself unable to rest, he would add a viewport here, some hull plating there. Most of it is a blur of hot tea and soft music, miniature polymer molds and grey paint. But he remembers distinctly when the deflector dish went on, during the longs nights after what was simultaneously the best and the worst day of his life. The day he’d learned he’d gained a son. And lost a wife.

Three years, six months’ worth of sleepless nights, bottled up for all to see.

He sits back in his chair, rubs a hand on his chin, remembers a few other things from when he’d started the model. Namely, what was to be _Voyager_ ’s most recognized couple making out over the railing on the upper deck of engineering. He’d shooed away a spying crewman before clearing his throat. “Lieutenants,” he’d said. Then cast his eyes downward through the grated floor. Below them stood the captain, palm on her forehead, barking orders at B’Elanna’s staff.

He’d been thanked for that warning later, in private, by both of them.

“So much for discretion. Or self-restraint,” he mumbles. “They never were for it anyway.” Then reflexively he pinches the bridge of his nose. Sometimes when B’Elanna’s angry, he swears it still aches.

He fiddles with the silver cap, flipping it between his fingers, then threads it on the end of the bottle.

“Well, took me long enough but I guess you’re finally done, little lady,” he says. Carefully he picks up the model and returns it to his bookshelf. On his way to the couch he retrieves a bottle of bourbon from the kitchenette and one glass.

The drink goes down smooth, but not easy. The more whiskey Joe empties from its bottle, the blurrier mini _Voyager_ becomes in hers, but it does little to ease the ache in his soul.

He saw a man die today.

A good man, a friend. A father.

He closes his eyes and puts the glass down. “Computer, how old is… was… Lieutenant Paris?”

_~Lieutenant Thomas Eugene Paris died at the age of thirty-three.~_

“Thirty-three,” he repeats. “And how old is Chief Torres?”

_~Lieutenant B’Elanna Torres is currently twenty-eight years old.~_

“Is that all?”

_~Affirmative.~_

His heart starts to race at the next question to leave his tongue. “Computer, when is Chief Torres’ baby due?”

_~Authorization required due to medical confidentiality.~_

“Right, right.”

He thinks a moment, then rambles aloud. “Tom said…” the words are fuzzy both from alcohol and his recent concussion. “’My wife is due… a couple of months.’ That’s what he told the woman. Brin.”

He squints and brings an image of B’Elanna into his mind’s eye, recalling how she looked just this morning, compares it with a couple of memories from another woman a decade ago, then nods his head up and down. “That seems right. Two months. Maybe less.”

Fingers knot in his disheveled curls at the implication. “Two months. Son of a…”

He’s propelled off the couch and back onto his feet only to realize he has nowhere to go. He looks down at his boots, then past them to the floor and imagines what she must be doing right now.

Not much imagination is necessary.

Cursing himself for having given in to the rare urge to drink, he walks to the replicator and orders a mug of black coffee. If he’s even slightly sober, he can check on her. Not that she’d see him, or anyone else for that matter. But he should at least try.

Mug to his lips, the pungent odor makes his stomach churn. It smells like acid. Bitter and hot.

It smells like Verin’s weapon.

Putting the mug back onto the replicator pad, he presses a button and it disappears into the ether.

The stench, however, lingers.

 _‘Hey! What the hell are you –‘_ Paris’s voice rings in his ears as Joe’s mouth mimics his last words.

 _“Tom!”_ he’d shouted. _‘Get down!’_

But it’s too late, hours too late by now. Mere seconds then. A sickening snap of a sound, the tinkling of a transporter taking hold, his own shouts echoing through the cavern; these things haunt his ears.

A swig of cold water is all he needs. Resolved, he grabs for his uniform jacket.

It’s not until he is just a few steps from their – _her_ – quarters that he even begins to fathom what he’ll say. His hand hovers above the door chime.

 _‘He loved you so much,’_ he considers. ‘ _Everyone knew it._ _And he was so excited to be a father. Did you know we talked about it? He asked me for advice, more than once. It’s so long since I’ve been a parent, I didn’t know what to tell him.’_

His still-inebriated thoughts race ahead.

 _‘Tom would have been a wonderful father. He loved children, like I do. Too many children without fathers, thanks to_ Voyager. _Too many wives without husbands._ ’

He slams the side of his fist into the bulkhead, leaving his arm there for support, his body slumping forward until his brow rests on the cold surface.

 _‘I’m so sorry, B’Elanna,’_ he thinks.

His waiting hand makes contact with the keypad.

_‘I should have done more.’_

He rings the chime again and again.

_‘I should have stopped Verin.’_

The door never opens.

_‘I should have warned Tom.’_

And so instead, he confesses to the empty hall.

“It should have been me.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please subscribe to this collection - [You Can't Choose What Stays](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/You_Cant_Choose_What_Stays) \- If you're interested in hearing what happens to B'Elanna and Joe after Tom's death.  
> [Klugtiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klugtiger/) will be putting out the next story in a few days for her contribution to 25 Days of Voyager. Woo!  
> Thanks you, Ariella, for hosting the exchange!


End file.
